


Now That They Both Are Finding

by ohyoudork



Series: Do You Know What's Worth Fighting For? [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Briefest of mentions of violence, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyoudork/pseuds/ohyoudork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which Les Amis de l’ABC are university students who work at the Musain Grille restaurant.</p><p>---</p><p>“What the hell is your problem, Enjolras? Are you trying to get yourself beat up?” Bahorel hissed.</p><p>“I need to find Grantaire. Please, I need him,” he said in a small voice.</p><p>Enjolras suspected it was the “please” - which slipped out before he could even think - that made Bahorel’s expression soften into a kind of understanding. He at least understood how desperate Enjolras was and the lengths he was willing to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is a direct continuation of the last section of ["Like We Did When Spring Began,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/802319) so you'll want to read that first. (I should have made this into chapters with that part or something, but I don't want to split that up idk)

It took Enjolras at least a full minute to realize that Grantaire wasn’t joking around, that he wasn’t going to come back into the apartment, grinning that atrociously cocky smirk like he usually did.

Of course, this wasn’t a usual fight.

Sure, the pair had had their disagreements in the months they’d been dating - they were, after all, nearly polar opposites in most respects. Some arguments had gotten heated (the one after Grantaire had missed so many of his creative writing classes that the professor had come into the Musain one day to make sure he wasn’t dead or dropping out had been especially memorable), but they never lasted. Grantaire would crack a smile and kiss Enjolras’ forehead, calling him “Apollo” and squeezing his hands tenderly. Enjolras would stubbornly try to hold on to some of his frustration, but it always slipped away with Grantaire’s fingers intertwined with his.

And it was always Grantaire who broke the tension, even when Enjolras went too far and got cruel without meaning to. Grantaire could sense the moment in their arguments where things were about to go beyond the point of rescue, and he always stopped them, always calmed them. Enjolras wasn’t used to Grantaire going off the rails; with anything else, yes, but not when it came to them. And he certainly wasn’t used to Grantaire furiously bolting out of the apartment.

Maybe it was arrogant of him to expect Grantaire to always be the one to cave first, but that’s how things had been, and that’s how Enjolras had assumed they would continue. When he wasn’t trying to overthrow governments or rewrite the justice system, Enjolras was actually a creature of habit. Once a pattern was set, he found comfort in that routine. Like how he had to brush his teeth first thing in the morning, no matter if he was at home or curled up in a cubicle in the campus library or camping out on the steps of the capitol. Like how he did laundry every other Saturday morning (which was usually filled with not only his clothes but strays from Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Gavroche, and anyone else). Like how he and their friends opened the Musain in the morning or closed at night - everyone had their tasks, everyone knew what to do, and everything went smoothly because of that.

Armed with the realization that he might have done something extremely stupid and that he would have to be the one to fix it this time, Enjolras ran out of the room, leaving the apartment door hanging open behind him. He practically jumped down the flight of stairs and burst onto the dark, empty street, looking both ways hopelessly.

Of course it was deserted; it was nearly 1 in the morning and, though he was close to campus, Enjolras lived in a cluster of apartment complexes that mostly catered to an older crowd, not the typical college student. He had let himself hope that Grantaire would be sitting on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and angrily venting to Eponine on his phone. But he was nowhere in sight. Enjolras looked down the street in both directions again, squinting his eyes in the darkness.

He felt helpless, and he hated feeling helpless. It was a useless emotion because there was always _something_ that could be done. He knew he shouldn’t have yelled at Grantaire, but what did he expect? Grantaire had contemplated _suicide_ , something Enjolras couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around. Grantaire said it wasn’t recently - he said it had been a long time since he had those thoughts - but Enjolras couldn’t be sure. In the span of five minutes, he had started to doubt every scrap of happiness he thought the two of them had shared. What if all the wisecracks, all the sarcasm, had just been for show? What if his smile that Enjolras adored so much was a constant lie?

And worse was the nagging nausea at the thought of a world without Grantaire. A world without his caustic laugh, sharp tongue, brilliant if often misguided mind, and those beautiful clear eyes that Enjolras had come to rely on. What if Grantaire had given up? What if he’d hurt himself? What if he was hurting himself right now? Enjolras felt his knees begin to buckle, and he steadied himself by sitting on the cement bench in front of his building.

Enjolras prided himself on staying cool in dire situations - he could run a restaurant during any hectic rush, he could calm a crowd when fighting broke out at protests, he could balance multiple deadlines at school and finish everything early - but he found that panic was quickly taking over. His breathing was becoming labored; he was almost gasping to get enough oxygen into his lungs even though he was sitting perfectly still. Images of Grantaire passed out drunk in a dangerous area, or strung up in a noose, or lying in the middle of the street wouldn’t stop flashing before his eyes. He put his arms down so that his palms were resting flat on the cool cement, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on slowing his pulse and keeping the dizziness at bay.

He’d seen Joly have enough panic attacks to know the signs.

After a minute of deliberate, calm breaths, he felt slightly better and his mind was a fraction clearer, though he noticed as he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants that his hands were shaking and he couldn’t seem to control the tremors at all. He hit redial and brought the phone to his ear, tapping his leg impatiently. After ringing only once, the call flipped to Grantaire’s voicemail - a simple, gruff “It’s R, go on then” - meaning he was either ignoring Enjolras or, more likely, he had turned his phone off.

Enjolras sighed and hung up without leaving a message, knowing that wouldn’t do any good; Grantaire wouldn’t be checking them. He then hit 1 on his speed dial and thankfully Combeferre picked up almost immediately.

“What’s up, Enjolras? I’m a little busy at the moment. Courfeyrac managed to fall and nearly give himself a concussion, so I’m here with him and Joly, checking things out.”

Hearing Combeferre’s voice was enough to make his leg stop shaking at least.

“It’s Grantaire,” Enjolras almost whispered as if he were telling a secret. He couldn’t seem to make his voice any louder. “You haven’t heard from him, have you? Or has Courfeyrac?”

After a brief silence, Combeferre responded in a steady but concerned tone, “No, the last time I saw him was after we closed up. He was with you. Why? What happened?”

“We just... we had... it was just a fight. I’m sure he’ll come back soon. I’m probably just being silly.”

Another pause. “You’re never silly, Enjolras. He left the apartment and hasn’t returned?”

“Yeah, but it’s only been like five minutes. I’m sure I’m overreacting. Just let me know if you or Courfeyrac or Joly hear from him, OK? I just want to know he’s all right.”

“Are _you_ all right?” Combeferre asked, shushing Courfeyrac - “watch my hair, Joly, geez” - who Enjolras could hear whining in the background. “You sound strange. And quiet. Which is even more strange for you.”

Enjolras had to almost crack a smile at that. “I’m just a little worked up; I’ll be fine.”

“OK. Well, I’ll call around and see what I can find out, yeah? In the meantime, try to stay calm. And recognize the fact that Grantaire has gotten himself into some of the most insane and reckless situations imaginable. Remember that time Eponine had to pick him up at the police station after he’d gotten into a fight with those party clowns and he was _covered_ in confetti and glitter but not a scratch on him? I’m sure no matter where he is, he’s fine.”

Nodding his head even though Combeferre couldn’t see, Enjolras thanked his friend and hung up. He immediately hit 2 on his speed dial and waited for Feuilly to pick up. Grantaire and Feuilly had been spending more time together than usual lately, since Grantaire enjoyed helping fellow artists and Feuilly gladly accepted any and all assistance as the deadline for his thesis project approached. The apartment Feuilly shared with Jehan and Combeferre wasn’t too far from him; maybe Grantaire had run over there, and they were lost in a mess of canvas and glass and paste.

After listening through the rings, the call clicked over to voicemail. Feuilly always answered his phone if he heard it, even through his light sleep, so Enjolras figured he was probably too engaged in his work to pay attention to anything else. He decided against leaving a message. He didn’t want to run around causing all of his friends to unnecessarily worry. That wouldn’t do any good.

Knowing Eponine was at some sort of concert and wouldn’t be checking her phone, he texted her a short message - _Let me know if you hear from Grantaire_ \- and then he called Bahorel. If he were thinking clearly, he would have reached out to Eponine and Bahorel first, seeing as they had known Grantaire the longest and knew him and his stunts better than anyone. Yet, Enjolras was not thinking clearly. His rational decisions were interspersed with the desperation that had been etched all over Grantaire’s face before he’d left, and it made Enjolras’ stomach drop and his entire line of sight get blurry for a few seconds every time.

“Yo,” Bahorel said groggily, as if he had been asleep. Enjolras, however, seriously doubted he was at home, much less in bed this early on a Saturday night. “Enjolras? What’s wrong?”

“Is Grantaire with you? Or have you talked to him tonight?” Enjolras tried to make his voice sound normal, even though Bahorel wasn’t likely to be as observant as Combeferre had been.

“Not since we were at the Musain. Why? I thought he was staying at your place tonight.”

“We had... a disagreement, and he left. I was hoping you’d talked to him,” Enjolras felt the gnawing in his stomach grow more violent. He wondered if it was some kind of warning - actually, he was doing his best to _not_ wonder.

“Well, I haven’t. I came home and went to bed after Eponine socked me, that feisty little pain in the ass. And... hang on... no messages on my phone. Why are you so worked up? You two pull this shit all the time.”

“He never leaves though,” Enjolras replied, suddenly standing up and looking both ways down the street again without any real hope that Grantaire would be there.

“Well, what happened that’s making this time different?”

Enjolras wasn’t sure how to answer. He suspected Grantaire hadn’t told anyone about his dark contemplations, and it wasn’t Enjolras’ story to spread around. He didn’t want to tell Bahorel unless it was absolutely necessary, but lying was not a strongpoint of his. He figured his best course of action would be avoiding the question.

“It’s kind of personal really,” he said after a minute, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady as he paced along the sidewalk.

“If you don’t want to tell me, why should I help you? What if R just needed to get away from you for a night?”

Enjolras knew what it felt like to get punched by Bahorel - on more than one occasion he’d made the mistake of getting in the middle of one of Bahorel’s bar fights, trying to use words to solve the disagreement, and instead got accidentally walloped by Bahorel’s wayward fist. Yet, this was the first time Enjolras could remember getting hit with his sharp words. He was momentarily speechless, simultaneously pissed off that Bahorel would say something like that to him and hurt that he would think such a thing and have such a low opinion about his and Grantaire’s relationship. Did all of his friends wonder what Grantaire was doing with him?

Before Enjolras could reply, Bahorel cleared his throat and Enjolras heard the sound of a bed creaking in the background. Maybe he really had been asleep. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just in a bad mood. I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“It’s OK,” Enjolras said immediately, leaning against a lightpost, his balance becoming unstable as another image of Grantaire, drunk and stupid and getting into an outmatched fight, flashed before his eyes. “Just... do you have any idea where Grantaire might have gone? I need to find him.”

“Was he drunk?”

Remembering the changes in Grantaire’s face as Enjolras had read from his notebook, the way his eyes darkened and how his mouth had formed into an impenetrable straight line, it was an easy answer.

“He was about as stone cold sober as I’ve ever seen him.”

“OK, so he’s going to be looking for a bar. You don’t have anything open near you, so he probably made a beeline over here.” Bahorel lived something like 10 blocks toward the south, in the same apartment complex as Grantaire, a floor apart. (At one point, they had laid sheets of plywood on the stairs so Bahorel could just slide down to Grantaire’s floor and rigged a rope against the wall so he could pull himself back up, but their landlord put a stop to that.) Their building was right on what was the main drag toward campus; it was filled with student housing, hipster coffee houses, and an overload of bars open all night long. “Why don’t you make your way here and I’ll meet you on the street? We’ll find him in no time. Of course if he doesn’t want to talk to you, I’m not going to make him either.”

Enjolras smiled for the first time during their conversation. “Thanks Bahorel. Oh, and could you check his apartment, too?”

“He won’t be there. When he’s upset, he doesn’t like to be alone. But yeah, I’ll swing by anyway,” Bahorel said before hanging up.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Enjolras started walking in the direction of Grantaire’s apartment. A few strides later at the nearest intersection, he looked down and saw that he didn’t have any shoes on. His bare feet, the hard, cold pavement beneath them, hadn’t registered in his brain at all. That wasn’t a good sign of his current mental health.

He debated just continuing, shoes be damned, but then he realized he didn’t have his wallet or his keys. And he’d left his apartment open.

He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly - he could acknowledge that - and it wasn’t like him to be so scatterbrained. Even under intense pressure, even with the threat of physical harm, even with the very core of his ideals under attack, he could always focus. He didn’t like feeling like this, almost out of control. It was almost worse than the helpless feeling that was still clawing at his insides. Caring about Grantaire had changed him; the relationship they shared had changed him, piece by piece, so slowly that he hadn’t even recognized it. It wasn’t until Grantaire was no longer there that he fully saw it.

But he didn’t have time to spend analyzing his feelings at the moment.

Enjolras turned around and sprinted back to his building, taking the stairs two at a time to reach his apartment, the door still hanging open, the glare of his small TV the only light. He went into his bedroom and grabbed his wallet and keys from his dresser; then he slid his feet into a pair of Combeferre’s old sneakers that were on the floor, and walked back into the living room. After turning the TV off, he hesitated for a second before bending down and picking up Grantaire’s small notebook from the ground. He didn’t know why he would possibly need it, but a gut feeling told him he would. He put it in his pocket with his phone and then closed the door quietly, locking it behind him.

He let his body move on autopilot, making his way down the dark streets on sense memory. He alternated between jogging and sprinting, the avenue becoming more populated the closer he got; he couldn’t really hear much besides his heart pumping in his chest, which was only making him more nervous by the second. It wasn’t until he was within view of the north side of the university that he reached the block where Grantaire and Bahorel lived. There weren’t a lot of people out, but it was definitely more crowded than his area.

Standing at a corner, he leaned against a crosswalk sign to catch his breath and looked for Bahorel. He glanced past a group of undergrads hanging out on the curb and another pair arguing in front of a parked car. Not spotting Bahorel right away, Enjolras decided he couldn’t just wait around - that wasn’t how he did things. He didn’t wait. Waiting was for people who didn’t have the ambition to act. He’d already wasted time by being indecisive, bothering his friends, and definitely not running his fastest.

He struck off toward the nearest lights, which happened to be O’Malley’s, the Irish pub directly below where Grantaire lived. Enjolras knew it was Grantaire’s favorite, and he allowed himself to hope it would be this easy. That he would walk in and find Grantaire drowning himself in whiskey. That he would put his arms around Grantaire and gently lead him outside, whispering apologies in a soothing tone. That he would take Grantaire upstairs and they would forgive each other and fall asleep in his boyfriend’s tiny, grungy bed. Even though he didn’t like to apologize as a general rule, especially when he hadn’t really done anything wrong in his eyes, Enjolras would do it this time - he’d do anything.

He walked in and searched for Grantaire’s messy curls, starting at the bar and then gazing across the span of the dark room, straining his eyes to see each table. But Grantaire wasn’t to be found. Enjolras approached the counter and waited for Drew the bartender, a kind of burly guy with dreadlocks that Enjolras had met many times while picking up Grantaire, to acknowledge him.

When Drew finally turned around, unless Enjolras’ imagination was playing tricks on him, the bartender actually sneered, his top lip curling upward. He stepped slowly but purposefully down to the end of the bar where Enjolras was standing and placed his large arms on the counter, staring at Enjolras with a kind of terrifying focus.

“What do you want?”

Enjolras wasn’t sure what he could have done to make this man so hostile toward him, but the worry that had been eating away at him for the past half-hour turned to anger in a split-second.

“I’m looking for my goddamn boyfriend. Have you seen him?” Enjolras snapped.

Drew narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer, still at least a head taller than Enjolras. The rest of the bar, admittedly sparsely populated, had gone silent watching them.

“I don’t think he cares for your company right now. Why don’t you fuck off and take your self-righteous, arrogant ass back home?”

Enjolras knew he wasn’t particularly intimidating to the average observer, but that worked to his advantage most of the time because nobody expected the sheer ferocity that he was capable of. Drew was either just being an asshole or he was hiding Grantaire somewhere or had at least seen him, and Enjolras wanted answers - he didn’t have time for jerks playing power games, he thought as he fought another wave of panic-induced dizziness.

He placed his arms on the bar to mimic Drew’s posture, refusing to back down.

“How about you stay out of my business and tell me where Grantaire is?” Enjolras was whispering, but he accented each syllable, giving his words a weight that he hoped demonstrated that he wasn’t playing around. The last thing he wanted was to stand there, playing a heavy-handed back-and-forth with a bartender who he’d seen come this close to snapping a person in two.

“Why don’t you fucking make me?” Drew snarled back, folding his arms across his chest as he stood up straight.

Enjolras wasn’t a fighter by nature, but he was tired of this. He didn’t know if Drew was hiding something or just looking for a fight - but he was getting it. Enjolras leaned forward and pressed his finger against Drew’s collar bone, aware that he was acting reckless but also not caring.

“That was a mistake, pretty boy,” Drew backed away, keeping his eyes on Enjolras as he walked around the back of the bar and then approached. “Let’s see if you’re made of more than blonde hair and big words.”

Drew gathered Enjolras’ shirt in his fist, pulling him close and, for a few seconds, Enjolras closed his eyes and wished for it. Maybe getting punched would knock some sense into him, since he was acting like a lunatic. Maybe he deserved it for causing Grantaire to run away in the first place. But before he felt the impact, he heard Bahorel’s voice ring out: “No, hey, don’t! Drew, put him down!”

Enjolras turned his head as Drew reluctantly let him go. Bahorel was dressed in jeans and a white tanktop to contrast against his skin, which was a little ridiculous considering the early spring weather. But it showed off his muscles, and of course he wouldn’t give up that opportunity. Enjolras rolled his eyes. Bahorel came up to him, putting his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder protectively.

“Are you OK?” he asked, his eyebrows pinched together in concern.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras replied, shrugging out of Bahorel’s grasp. “This asshole won’t tell me if Grantaire was here though.”

It was almost as if he were drunk, the way he was acting and talking, without any concern for tact or respect. Well, he was never particularly tactful, but he liked to think he conducted himself with a bit more poise than he currently was. He knew how to use his words to solve problems, not his fists. However, in his mind, Drew was standing in the way of him finding Grantaire and making things better - and diplomacy wasn’t worth wasting another second.

He started toward Drew again, suddenly filled with rage - he didn’t know if it was directed at Drew or Grantaire or himself. Yet, Bahorel pulled him back, pushing him against the wall.

“What the hell is your problem, Enjolras? Are you trying to get yourself beat up?” Bahorel hissed.

“I need to find Grantaire. Please, I need him,” he said in a small voice.

Enjolras suspected it was the “please” - which slipped out before he could even think - that made Bahorel’s expression soften into a kind of understanding. He at least understood how desperate Enjolras was and the lengths he was willing to go.

“Go outside, Enjy. Wait for me on the sidewalk,” Bahorel pointed out the door. Enjolras was about to protest - after all he was the one who always gave the orders - when his mind finally made the connection that he was a stranger there.

Sure, he’d hung out with Grantaire and their friends in the bar, but he wasn’t a regular and they had no reason to trust him. Grantaire, on the other hand, had made O’Malley’s a kind of second home; all of the bartenders knew him and trusted him and liked him. All of the patrons enjoyed his company. Right now, Enjolras was an angry boyfriend demanding to see one of “their people.” Of course Drew reacted the way he did; Enjolras would have done the same, although less threatening, if someone had marched into the Musain that way, seeking one of his friends.

Nodding weakly, Enjolras spun on his heels and walked quickly toward the exit. Once outside, he leaned against a parking meter as he watched Bahorel talk animatedly to Drew; he knew Bahorel could be very convincing when he put his mind to it, and he hoped that would be enough to make Drew spill the beans. Enjolras shoved his hands in his pockets as he waited, gently fingering Grantaire’s notebook, as if touching it would bring him closer to his missing boyfriend. He wished things worked that way. He didn’t often wish for things because what good did wishing do when you could act instead? But right now, he was wishing.

Enjolras knew he was acting borderline insane, but he couldn’t help the anxiety spreading inside him. What if he had pushed Grantaire over the cliff? What if their relationship, the happiness they shared, had been the only thing keeping Grantaire grounded and he’d ruined it? What if he’d put Grantaire into danger by pushing him too far? By demanding answers that maybe Grantaire would never have?

He curled his fingers around the notebook as Bahorel emerged, his handsome face stoic for a change.

“He said yeah, Grantaire was here --”

“Where? Where is he now?” Enjolras interrupted, craning his neck to peer into O’Malley’s.

“He’s gone,” Bahorel answered, laying his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders to calm him. “Drew said R was there for like five minutes, got two shots of whiskey, and then bolted. Said he was seriously upset about something. Care to explain?”

Enjolras didn’t want to talk about it. He was almost positive Grantaire had kept all of his darkness to himself, that he wouldn’t want to be a burden to his friends. And Enjolras didn’t want to make them worry either. Yet, he didn’t see a way out without completely pushing Bahorel away - and Enjolras knew he couldn’t do this alone, especially since he was losing more of his composure every minute. And he figured Bahorel deserved to know what he was dealing with tonight.

“You... uh... do you know about Grantaire’s... troubles?” Enjolras hated being less than precise, but he was hoping to slide his way into this conversation with more grace than he had with Grantaire.

Bahorel shifted his weight, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He slid one out and lit it, taking a long drag before looking Enjolras in the eyes.

“You mean his depression? Yeah, I know about it.”

“Do you know... did he ever tell you how bad it was?” Enjolras felt his pulse racing, images of Grantaire’s face flashing before his eyes like before. There was this deep, almost ache in his chest that felt like tiny, strong fingers pressing against his ribcage. He _needed_ to find Grantaire.

“Enjolras, stop beating around the bush. We don’t have time to fuck around here,” Bahorel finally seemed to have caught onto just how worried Enjolras was, and his features settled into a solemn concern.

“He was suicidal,” Enjolras blurted out.

Bahorel nearly bit through his cigarette, coughing on the smoke. “You’re messing with me, right? Suicide? No, no, that’s not R. He wouldn’t.”

Pulling Grantaire’s notebook out of his pocket, Enjolras handed it to Bahorel. “Read the last page.”

Bahorel tossed his half-finished cigarette on the ground and stamped on it as he flipped to the end of the notebook. His eyes got wide as he read the words that Enjolras could still taste in his mouth.

“It’s a fucking will,” Bahorel whispered with disbelief as he closed the notebook with a bit too much force, practically throwing it back at Enjolras like he had to get rid of it as quickly as possible. “He wrote a will. He thought giving me some shot glasses would make up for him offing himself.”

“And we argued about it,” Enjolras continued, “because I couldn’t understand, I still can’t. But he ran out before we could really talk about it, and I don’t know... I’m scared he’s going to do something stupid, that I pushed him too far. We need to find him.”

“Yeah, we do,” Bahorel nodded, running his fingers through his short hair as he took a few, long breaths. “OK, Drew said R was here less than 10 minutes ago, so we aren’t far behind. We’ll just think like him and we’ll find him, yeah?”

Enjolras extended his arm to indicate for Bahorel to go and he would follow.

They stopped in every open bar on the street, Bahorel doing the talking since Enjolras couldn’t be trusted to keep his cool. Most of them said they hadn’t seen Grantaire; a few said they had, but he’d left already. It was like playing a game of tag with a ghost.

After they hit the last bar on the block, Enjolras remembered he hadn’t checked his phone since he met with Bahorel; he’d put on silent because he wasn’t thinking clearly - the theme of the night. Standing at the corner with Bahorel questioning a couple who were too inebriated to stand straight, Enjolras turned his phone on and a screen popped up saying he had seven messages.

One was from Eponine, saying she hadn’t spoken to or seen Grantaire since she left the Musain earlier that night. Two were from Combeferre, saying no luck yet. Another from Bossuet, saying he was meeting Joly at the park to scope it out. And the last three were all from Feuilly: the first apologizing for not answering, the second saying Combeferre had filled him in and he and Jehan would go to campus to look there, and the third saying no luck in the English building and they were heading to the art studios.

With each text, Enjolras felt his chest tightening and his hearing was starting to mute like it had earlier. He knew he needed to work through the worry; he needed to find Grantaire before anything happened. Yet, he felt his previously never-ending reserves of strength and determination depleting. He could go 72 hours without sleep on the pavement outside the capitol, but a missing boyfriend was somehow too much for him to deal with. He put his phone back in his pocket and then lowered himself to squat above the sidewalk.

Confused, Bahorel followed suit, kneeling down to sit.

“Nobody’s heard anything,” Enjolras finally said, blinking up to meet Bahorel’s gaze. “How could he just disappear? Why would he do that?”

“He’s not used to having so many people care,” Bahorel replied sadly. “I mean, he’s had me and Ep since we were teenagers. But he’s never had a group like this, and he’s certainly never had someone like you.”

“I know I’m terrible but can we not --”

“I don’t mean it that way, Enjolras.” Bahorel paused, swatting at Enjolras’ knee. “It’s a good thing - you’re a good thing. And Grantaire isn’t used to good things.”

“Yeah, but you and Eponine have always been there for him.”

“Having two friends in the whole world isn’t a good thing. I mean, yeah, Ep and I are awesome, and the three of us have had each other’s backs. But it’s sad that we had to be the only people to do it, you know? Ep’s family is a pack of thieves and con artists, mine is about as indifferent to each other as strangers, and Grantaire’s was actively tortuous. And that’s not fair, but we dealt with it because we had to. Shit is different now. He’s got you, brilliant and idealistic and frustrating as all hell - and someone he’s head over heels in love with... someone he could lose.”

It was clear Bahorel and Grantaire had had many discussions about this, and Enjolras was stripped of words. Suddenly it made sense - everything made sense. Grantaire had left the apartment not because he was angry at Enjolras; he left because he was afraid that if he stayed, Enjolras was going to break up with him. He thought he would lose Enjolras by exposing that part of himself.

And Enjolras felt sick with not only worry, but shame, because it was never his intention to make Grantaire or anyone feel as if they had something to prove to him. He knew he demanded a lot of the people in his company, but he’d never wanted this. He loved all his friends despite of and because of their flaws and their strengths equally. It was the same with Grantaire. He loved Grantaire because... he... he loved Grantaire. _Shit..._

“I didn’t realize --”

“It’s OK,” Bahorel interrupted. “I mean, really. R loves that about you - that despite being kind of oblivious sometimes, you’re so good and you make the people around you better.”

Enjolras ran his hands down the sides of his face, settling them on his neck, his skin slightly damp from trekking around the city all night. “Do you think he would do something? Something drastic?”

Bahorel bit his lip and shrugged. “I really don’t know. I didn’t know he was so messed up. Obviously it hasn’t been lately. He mentioned Jehan’s birthday, and that was like... seven months ago? It was before you and him started dating, before he really felt a part of the group. I’d like to think he’s better now. But I just don’t know.”

The fact that Bahorel was as unsure as he was didn’t make Enjolras feel any better. He wanted comfort, platitudes that “everything would be OK” and “there there” and other meaningless words. He had never wanted such blatant lies before. What were their purpose? But he wanted them now; he needed to feel like everything wasn’t falling to pieces for just a few seconds.

“OK, let’s head back to R’s. Maybe he’s home by now,” Bahorel said, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Enjolras.

“I thought you said he --”

“It’s been awhile now. If he got his drinks, he might have gone home to cool off and be somewhere safe, you know?”

Enjolras nodded, standing up and following Bahorel, their pace too quick for Enjolras’ tired legs, but he kept up anyway.

He felt his phone vibrate as he walked and, when he checked it, it was a message from Eponine. She asked why people were looking for Grantaire as if he were missing, why he wouldn’t answer her calls, and if she should be worried.

Enjolras put his phone back in his pocket without answering. He hadn’t wanted to worry his friends, and he’d somehow managed to get all of them involved in his fruitless search. He got his phone out again to answer Eponine, but he almost ran into Bahorel, who had stopped at the intersection closest to their apartment.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as he sidestepped Bahorel, who only nodded in front of him.

There was Gavroche, holding his skateboard against his side, in worn jeans and a neon green windbreaker that Eponine probably made him wear at nights so he wouldn’t get hit by cars.

“Gavroche, it’s late. Why in the world are you awake and out on the streets?” Enjolras asked, staring at the child in front of him.

“I heard Ep talking on the phone, saying people were worried about Grantaire. So I thought I’d look for him, too.”

Great, Enjolras thought. Not only had he managed to worry every one of his friends, but an 11-year-old was out wandering the streets in search of his missing boyfriend as well. It might have been a new low.

“He’s outside the Musain, if you’re interested,” Gavroche continued, keeping his voice steady despite the fact that he was literally bouncing with the news, the soles of his sneakers lighting up in the darkness.

Enjolras’ head shot up and he took a few steps forward to place his hands on Gavroche’s shoulders. “Are you sure?” he asked in a frantic whisper.

“Of course, E, I don’t spread false information. I saw him with my own eyes like five minutes ago. And he didn’t look like he’d be going anywhere anytime soon,” Gavroche grinned.

Enjolras gripped Gavroche for another second, squeezing him tightly, before taking off in a full-blown run down the street.

“Enjolras, wait!” he heard Bahorel shout from behind.

But he wasn’t going to wait. He knew where Grantaire was. Grantaire was OK. And there was nothing that would keep Enjolras away. He needed to see it for himself; he needed to see Grantaire’s face, to see him in one piece. Enjolras ran straight through lights, taking it for granted that the streets were empty enough that any cars actually out would be vigilant enough to spot a blond maniac tearing down the block.

He kept a steady rhythm as he passed Grantaire’s complex and continued down the street. He could hear Gavroche and Bahorel yelling, meaning they were following, but Enjolras wouldn’t slow down. He was on a mission and, once he was on a mission, he was single-minded. All of the haziness that had been blocking him before had filtered away, and his laser-like concentration had returned. It gave him a precise focus on the path ahead.

Jumping over a pothole, he then rounded a corner and passed by his block. His tired legs were screaming at him to stop, but he ignored it and kept running, the Musain almost within sight. He would have run a thousand more miles if he needed to.

He arrived at the street where the Musain was, and he managed to increase his speed, even though he had already been pushing himself. Sweat was pouring down his face, making his hair damp around his ears, soaking through his thin T-shirt. He counted his steps - each time his foot hit the ground was a beat closer to Grantaire, closer to everything he needed.

Skidding to a stop across the street, Enjolras felt faint.

He could see Grantaire curled up on the stoop of the Musain Grille, wrapped in his favorite green hoodie and holding a paper bag that inevitably contained a bottle of whiskey. He must have gone home at some point because his jacket and shoes had been left in Enjolras’ apartment, and he was fully clothed now. For a moment, Enjolras chastised himself for not going to Grantaire’s apartment in the first place and just waiting there. That would have been the logical thing to do - if he had been thinking logically.

But that didn’t matter because Grantaire was OK. There he was, in plain sight, alive and breathing and unharmed.

Enjolras rested his palms on his knees as he caught his breath, never taking his eyes from Grantaire, who hadn’t noticed him yet. He gasped for enough air to fill his lungs; the pain in the balls of his feet all the way up his legs didn’t matter because his boyfriend was there.

Everything could still be OK.

Though he was far from recovered physically, Enjolras took off across the street, staring at Grantaire’s face, waiting for his clear eyes to come into focus. He didn’t look in either direction before crossing the avenue.

The last thing he saw was the bright glare of lights from his right, and the last thing he heard was Grantaire screaming his name before everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

When he opened his eyes, all Enjolras saw was darkness.

His breathing was shallow and the air too warm as it hovered around his face. He felt like he was sitting, as if there was something sturdy keeping him upright, but he couldn’t be sure because he didn’t feel any sensation.

Enjolras wondered if he had died, if that car speeding at him had hit him. He thought maybe he was experiencing the afterlife - a lonely, dark nonexistence that was going to last forever. He didn’t know if he had believed in a heaven while alive, but whatever came after your time on Earth had to be better than this. If he had to be dead, he would have at least expected to hang out with some of the inspiring deceased - discuss class issues with Che Guevara, Iranian history with Kuchik Khan, radical anarchism with Louise Michel.

Not floating in some limitless isolation. It was the opposite of everything he wanted. He wanted his friends, he wanted his family, he wanted to change the world. He had too much left to accomplish; he hadn’t even gotten started, hadn’t made a dent yet.

More than anything, he wanted Grantaire; Enjolras had spent his last night alive wandering the streets, looking for his boyfriend who had no idea how much Enjolras cared about him. Leaving without Grantaire understanding was not an option. This couldn’t be the end. He didn’t accept it. When he started to rebel and went to try and move his body, that’s when he realized he couldn’t be dead.

Suddenly he felt like he had gotten hit by a tank. Surely you couldn’t hurt this much if you were dead, right? What kind of sick joke would that be? That death wouldn’t be the end of bodily pain? No, it couldn’t be.

“I think he’s waking up,” Enjolras heard a voice say. He knew the voice. Bahorel? He tried to say the name, but nothing came out. There was, however, an ache in his jaw when he attempted to speak. And there was a slight cooper taste in his mouth. He tried to take comfort in the fact that his senses appeared to be returning to him.

He attempted again to move, but felt as if he were sinking in quicksand, his limbs unresponsive, the haze that had been hanging over him earlier in the night returning with a vengeance. He couldn’t even breathe properly - each breath was shaky and stilted, like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“Enjy? Are you with us?” the same low voice asked. “Should I hit him to wake him up?” Definitely Bahorel.

Enjolras finally took control, rotating himself only about an inch to the left, his entire body buzzing with a dull pain. Except in his head and his shoulder, where the pain was sharp and ceaseless, like a thousand daggers stabbing him at the same time.

“Hang on, Enjy,” the voice that had to be Bahorel said. All of a sudden, there was a pressure - the fog was getting more dense, swarming closer to his face, sucking the oxygen away. Enjolras gasped and closed his eyes again, not knowing what was coming next.

And then there was light, a brightness illuminating even through his shuttered lids, and the unmistakable chill of a breeze. When he blinked his eyes open, it took a long time for things to come into focus. For a while it was like he was trying to see in murky water, the glare moving, the figures blurry. But at last he saw Bahorel standing above him, long red scratches down one of his bare arms, and Gavroche at his side, clutching his skateboard to his chest, both looking concerned. When he turned his head slightly, Enjolras felt Grantaire’s soft hoodie curled around his face - so that had been the darkness. Now he could smell the faint scent of cigarettes that hung to the fabric, and he felt the warmth of Grantaire’s body still lingering in the plushness. Why they had thought pulling the hood over his face was a good idea was beyond him though.

As he looked in front of him, he saw Grantaire holed up in the opposite corner, hugging his arms against his chest, his eyes unblinking as he stared at Enjolras. But he wouldn’t meet Enjolras’ gaze; he was looking at Enjolras’ chest, watching its rise and fall. Like he had been afraid Enjolras was going to stop breathing. Enjolras knew that fear - he’d been living in it every second since Grantaire had run from the apartment. But there they both were, both in one piece - technically speaking.

Groaning in pain, Enjolras laid his head back against what turned out to be the brick wall of the Musain. He and Grantaire were sitting on the stoop of the restaurant, only feet away from each other, but Enjolras felt like there may as well have been a solid wall between them. His head was pounding and his shoulder was raw. Moving even a fraction of an inch felt like his joints had sandpaper between them.

“Are you OK, Enjy?” Bahorel asked, squatting down to eye level. “You’ve been out awhile. We were starting to get worried.”

Enjolras just stared in front of him, willing Grantaire to look at him, to say anything. What Enjolras would have given to hear even just one word pass through his lips. Bahorel scooted a bit closer so his knee - in jeans that weren’t torn earlier in the night - was almost touching Enjolras’ leg. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras croaked out, his voice feeling foreign in his throat, like he hadn’t spoken for days - which would have been a record if it was true. “What happened?”

“It was wicked, E,” Gavroche exclaimed, tossing his skateboard down between his legs so he could use his hands to gesture while he talked. “You ran over to see Grantaire, but you weren’t paying attention or anything, so you didn’t see the car coming. But they were speeding, too, so it’s not like it was all your fault. But Bahorel ran like a superhero and pushed you out of the way. The car honked and stuff, like it was our fault when they were the ones not paying attention and almost killed you. I got their tags though.” Gavroche paused to tap on his temple. “I’ll get them back. You can count on it. Fight the system, you know?” Gavroche pumped his fist in the air.

“Not particularly,” Enjolras heard what Gavroche was saying, but he was having a hard time fixating on anything except Grantaire’s face, which had remained the same since Enjolras had woken up - his brow furrowed and his eyes dark, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“Yeah, you landed kind of hard. Sorry about that,” Bahorel said, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. It made Enjolras suspect that Bahorel had landed hard as well. “And your shoulder dislocated a little, but I fixed it.”

Enjolras didn’t have it in him to correct that a shoulder couldn’t dislocate “a little,” and that Bahorel didn’t have the proper medical training to put a dislocated shoulder back in its socket. But that would explain why it felt like his arm was rusted over and in need of oil.

“But you’re OK otherwise. We checked you out,” Bahorel continued, Gavroche nodding enthusiastically in agreement. “You’ll probably have a headache for a day and some scrapes and bruises, but you’ll be back to yourself soon.”

Even though he was sore like he had run a marathon and then fallen off a cliff, he was alive and breathing. And he had Bahorel to thank for the fact that he wasn’t roadkill. Reaching forward, Enjolras placed his hand on Bahorel’s, squeezing it gently.

“Thank you. For everything tonight,” Enjolras said, glancing over at Gavroche to nod at him, too.

Bahorel cocked a grin and was about to say something else when his phone started blaring “We Are The Champions.” He sighed, and Enjolras suspected he’d been dealing with a lot of phone calls in the past however-long he’d been out. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but since he’d gotten all of his friends riled up and worried about Grantaire, his own silence had probably only stressed them out more.

“No, ‘Ferre, you don’t need to come down here,” Bahorel groaned into the phone, standing up with an apologetic smile. “He’s OK. He woke up. Yeah, yeah, I’m good, too. And R. I promise we’re fine. Please just stay with Courf.”

Taking a few steps away, Bahorel lowered his voice as he continued the conversation, meaning he was probably telling Combeferre the specifics that Enjolras really didn’t want to relive right now. Mimicking Bahorel, Gavroche pulled out a phone from his pocket and started dialing - then Enjolras noticed it was his phone. Gavroche had notoriously sticky fingers and must have taken it while Enjolras was unconscious. Good to know it had escaped his hard fall unscathed at least.

“Hey Ep, it’s me. Yeah, everything is cool. R is just kind of staring, and I think Enjolras is in shock or something. But you can call off the troops now.” Enjolras smiled slightly, even though it hurt to do so. “Do I really have to come home now? I have an important job here. What? Watching over your friends _is_ a job, a full-time one that I should probably get paid for.”

Gavroche jumped onto his skateboard and began slowly rotating around Bahorel, mimicking the older man’s body language as they both held their phones to their ears. Enjolras smiled again through the pain in his jaw - he suspected he probably had a nasty bruise or something there - and then looked back to Grantaire, who quickly averted his eyes, though Enjolras knew he had been staring. Enjolras pushed out one of his legs, his sweatpants dark from the asphalt, to lightly tap the end of Grantaire’s shoe. When Grantaire looked up, the guilt plastered on his face was enough to almost send Enjolras spinning. He knew they needed to talk. If they didn’t talk right then, they may as well never speak again.

When Bahorel and Gavroche finished their calls and walked back over a few seconds later, Enjolras looked up at them. “Bahorel, can you take Gavroche home?”

“But --” Bahorel started to protest.

“We’re OK. We’ll get home alright.”

Bahorel looked uncertain, but Gavroche flipped up his skateboard and gently hit Bahorel’s arm with it, pointedly looking between Enjolras and Grantaire as if to say “Give them some space already.” Sometimes Gavroche surprised Enjolras with a wisdom far beyond his years, though he shouldn’t be all that shocked considering the life he had been thrown into since birth - and the fact that he’d been raised by Eponine had helped shape his observational skills, too.

Gavroche tossed Enjolras’ phone back to him, which Enjolras didn’t so much catch as provide a landing pad for on his chest. Bahorel swept Gavroche up onto his back without one groan of pain, which Enjolras envied. He tucked Gavroche’s skateboard under his arm, and they headed in the opposite direction toward the Thenardier home.

Enjolras watched them until they turned the corner, Gavroche waving aggressively, and were out of sight. Then he looked back at Grantaire and realized he had no idea what to say. All he had wanted all night was to find Grantaire and apologize, but with him there, Enjolras couldn’t find the words anymore. Maybe it was his injuries slowing his senses and brain power. Or maybe he was just scared - another quality, like indecisiveness and helplessness, that he wasn’t fond of.

“Why did you do that?” Grantaire asked suddenly, his voice small and almost frightened. The bottle he’d been hugging before Enjolras had nearly gotten hit was nowhere in sight; he suspected Gavroche had probably disposed of it. Grantaire’s hands curled and uncurled in front of him as if it were still there.

“Do what?”

“Come looking for me.” Grantaire looked down, watching his hands clench and unclench.

 _Because I love you._ That’s what Enjolras wanted to say. He wanted to say it more than he thought he ever would. He knew they were only words and had no actual importance until you gave them weight. But he knew the power that words could hold - he’d made a life out of giving words a meaning. And yet, because his parents had never said they loved him - they supported him and they were proud of him and, deep down, he knew how deeply they cared about him - Enjolras had never learned how to give those particular words the proper respect they deserved.

He hadn’t even tried to say “I love you” in more than a decade. And until Grantaire, he’d been under the impression that that’s how things were just meant to be. Someone like him wasn’t meant for love - not romantic love at least - and that was OK because he had his friends, his passions, and his goals. That was all he needed. Until now. He wanted to say it so bad that he felt like he was choking on the words. He coughed, his chest burning.

“Enjolras?”

He would mean it if he told Grantaire he loved him. It would be the truth. It wasn’t even as if Grantaire had said it and was waiting for Enjolras to reciprocate. He wanted to say it, but he couldn’t get it out.

“I thought you were in danger,” he said quietly, rubbing his sore throat. “And I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”

Grantaire almost laughed, though it was really more of a shocked scoff. “You thought I was in danger while you were the one running in front of traffic?”

“I only saw you,” Enjolras answered immediately.

He didn’t know if that was the right thing to say or if it made everything worse. He was still feeling pretty light-headed from being unconscious, and the glare of the streetlight was creating a strange glow around Grantaire, like he was this beautiful mirage against a bleak backdrop. Then Grantaire scooted out of the corner so he was directly across from Enjolras, their feet interspersed, nearly touching but not quite.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispered. “I never meant for you to see my notebook. I never meant for anyone to. I didn’t-I didn’t have a plan or anything, you know. It was mostly just in case things got bad, got worse, and I couldn’t deal. I never sat down and thought, ‘I’m going to write a will for when I commit suicide.’”

“But you did,” Enjolras could feel himself trembling, though he wasn’t sure why. He definitely wasn’t cold - not still buried in Grantaire’s thick hoodie. He reached out his arms anyway and slowly pulled his knees close to his chest, stretching the hoodie to cover his legs. It easily engulfed him.

“I did. But you have to know that it went out the window after you and me. After you hired me at the Musain, after I got this family, our friends who really care, everything was different. And after you, I honestly forgot it was even in there. I had no reason to look back at it, not one single reason, since we got together. Believe me, I wouldn’t have left it around if I had remembered.”

Enjolras wanted to understand. He yearned to with every fiber of his being; it was like when he latched onto a story or an injustice, and he had to know the ins and the outs in order to fully comprehend the whole picture.

“I’m glad that it hasn’t been lately. Truly. But why did you write it in the first place?” he prodded.

Grantaire clearly didn’t want to answer. He glanced down and around him, probably searching for the liquor that wasn’t there. When he looked up, he closed his eyes before meeting Enjolras’ gaze and took a deep breath before responding.

“I was drinking too much.” Enjolras held his tongue. “I know I still drink too much, but it was worse, believe me. And I was failing three of my four classes. Bahorel and Eponine were fucking thriving, making new friends and learning shit to make something of themselves. And I was stuck. My dad was being a bigger asshole than usual. I was falling into my art, drowning in it, and I couldn’t get out.”

Enjolras knew Grantaire used painting as an outlet, but he couldn’t see how that could be detrimental. He thought poring an overabundance of emotions into art would be a good thing - it would be a release. That’s how it was for him when he delivered a speech or got a hold of a good story; the buildup was almost intoxicating and the conclusion euphoric. But for Grantaire, it was something else, something Enjolras couldn’t even fathom.

“I was having a hard time seeing the light. I can’t have your hope - in yourself, in humanity, in the future. I admire you so much for being able to see a brighter tomorrow, for wanting to work toward that. But I see things so fucking clear - as they are, not as they could be - and it hurts. It was hurting so much... constantly... that I couldn’t stand the idea of living like that. Or of lashing out at anyone who tried to help me. I was afraid if Eponine or Bahorel or any of you tried to reach me, I’d hurt you. And that was the last thing I wanted.”

Without thinking, Enjolras found that he’d moved forward and pulled Grantaire’s feet to wrap around his, their knees bent up and resting against each other. After noticing it, he reached around to take Grantaire’s hands on either side. The tangible warmth of Grantaire’s skin against his was almost breath-taking after the hours spent hopelessly searching for him.

“But you saved me, you know,” Grantaire continued, tugging on Enjolras’ wrists. “I thought, if you could see something in me that was worth it, then there had to be something there. Because you wouldn’t lie - you wouldn’t waste your time. With you, I could see the good again. You fucking saved me.”

“You saved me, too,” Enjolras said earnestly, without missing a beat. The shock on Grantaire’s face only fueled Enjolras’ guilt, and he attempted to pull Grantaire closer, even though they were already tangled together. Any space between them was too much.

“How is that possible?” Grantaire’s eyes were bright now, wide and curious, staring into Enjolras’ like they had that night at the Musain when they kissed for the first time. The night that had changed both of their lives.

“I thought I had lost you tonight,” Enjolras’ voice cracked on the words. “I was terrified because I thought you’d left, that you’d gone somewhere I couldn’t follow.”

“Oh no, Enjolras, no,” Grantaire whispered. “I’m here, I’m always here. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

For the first time tonight, Grantaire sounded like himself, and Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized it, but it was what he needed to hear: Grantaire was there to stay - he wasn’t going anywhere. Already he could feel the worry that had been coiling in his stomach start to dissipate, replaced with a staggering need to expound his feelings in whatever way he could. If not with “I love you,” then with the clear-cut facts - it was what he did best, after all.

“I meant what I said earlier tonight: You’re special. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met in my life. When I didn’t know what happened to you tonight, I was going out of my mind,” Enjolras had to hold Grantaire’s hands tighter to remind himself that he was really there. “Drew almost beat me up because I got in his face. I was accosting drunk people on the sidewalk. I was running in between traffic. I was this close to having a panic attack. But as soon as I saw you, I was OK. I felt safe and whole - just seeing you did that.”

Enjolras knew he was working around it. He was consciously saying everything he could think of except “I love you.” And he didn’t know why. He wanted to say it so much that it was beginning to make him angry that he couldn’t.

“I can’t-I can’t say the words.” Grantaire opened his mouth to reply, but Enjolras shook his head, needing to get out whatever he could. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them. You’re the most important thing in the world to me. You mean more to me than I ever thought a person would. And I’m thankful every single day I get to have you in my life. And I’m sorry that I ever made you doubt that for a moment.”

Grantaire had a kind of vacant expression on his face, his mouth still hanging open and his cheeks flushed. He was staring just above Enjolras’ left shoulder with his clear eyes unblinking. Enjolras didn’t know what it meant; was Grantaire disappointed that he couldn’t say “I love you” even though he wanted to? Was he angry? Was it not enough? Was it a dealbreaker? Was it the end? He needed Grantaire to say something.

“Grantaire, are you --”

Pretty much the last thing Enjolras had been expecting was Grantaire’s lips to crash into his so forcefully that he almost fell backwards. He wanted it so badly - Grantaire’s stubble against his chin was familiar and comforting, and the faintest sting of whiskey still on Grantaire’s tongue made Enjolras feel at home. He never wanted to let go; he could kiss Grantaire forever, get lost in worn sweatshirts and limbs, and that would be OK with him. Unfortunately his aching body had other ideas.

“Owww,” he groaned, reluctantly pushing Grantaire back as he reached up to rub his jaw.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Grantaire said quietly, though he was grinning ear to ear.

He tenderly reached forward to drag his fingers across Enjolras’ cheek; the touch was soft, and Enjolras craved it - he wanted to lean into it, feel Grantaire’s mouth on his again, but he was finally realizing how hard he must have landed when Bahorel pushed him out of the way. He probably looked like he had gotten beaten up, and he definitely felt like it.

“How bad do I look?” he asked.

Grantaire smiled sadly, fiddling with the stretched-out hood of his sweatshirt on Enjolras.

“You’ve got pretty bad road burn on your face,” Grantaire raised his hand again to lightly trace across Enjolras’ jaw. “I’m sure you can feel your shoulder is a little fucked up.” He dropped his fingers to ghost an outline on Enjolras’ collar bone sticking out from the sweatshirt. “There was some bleeding from scratches on your arm that you can’t see right now, and your sweatpants are filthy, and I know you have to have bruises under there.” Grantaire was barely touching Enjolras by that point, fingertips circling, and still he could feel it with a red-hot precision. “And your hair’s a mess. I’ve never seen it so crazy. But you still look like a goddamn masterpiece.”

He brought his hands back up to drag through Enjolras’ curls, settling them on the back of his head and pulling their foreheads together.

Every muscle, every joint, every skin cell on Enjolras’ body stung, but feeling Grantaire’s touch, breathing the same air, made everything worth it. He’d dive in front of an actual tank if it meant he got to stay like this.

However, whatever form of shock he’d been in before had completely worn off, and the pain was increasing by the second. They really needed to get off the streets. Sitting on the pavement had started to send shocks of pain up his spine. He needed the comfort of his bed, and he needed it fast.

“Can we go back to my place? I think I need to sleep for about 12 hours,” he said, kissing Grantaire’s nose delicately.

“You want me there?”

Despite everything they had gone through, everything Enjolras had tried to say, everything they’d communicated with and without words, Grantaire still doubted the degree of Enjolras’ affection.

It devastated him.

“Of course I want you there,” he responded with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I especially need your help in getting up.”

The corners of Grantaire’s mouth quirked up as he got to his feet, leaning his hand back against the wall behind him to steady himself. Once he was confident on his feet, he reached forward and offered a hand to Enjolras. After pulling him up, Grantaire daintily dusted Enjolras off, careful to barely touch his body for fear of hurting him, which Enjolras noticed with a fondness. With Grantaire’s hand firmly on Enjolras’ hip, they started walking - more like limping - back toward Enjolras’ apartment, which was thankfully close to the Musain.

“I think I have to call out tomorrow,” Enjolras said with a grimace as his legs buckled slightly under his weight. “I hate doing that, especially on Sundays when we’re busy, and especially if Courfeyrac is out of commission as well.”

Grantaire’s arm around his waist tightened slightly as they walked around the corner on the dark street. Enjolras had forgotten it must be well after 3 a.m. by this point. Grantaire had to be back at the Musain in less than five hours.

“We can handle it, don’t worry. I’ll make sure of it. And I’ll even bring you home some brunch,” Grantaire grinned.

“You have a way of getting me to not go to work, you know,” Enjolras replied, bumping his good shoulder against Grantaire gently.

It was true, too. The first time was when Marius and Cosette had gotten together, and he’d lost the bet to Grantaire and had to stay in bed all day (which wasn’t losing at all). The second was when he had a terrible migraine from working too hard on his thesis, and Grantaire had insisted he needed to stay inside, in a dark room, and went around unplugging all of Enjolras’ electronics to keep him undistracted. The third was when he got lost listening to Grantaire play the piano one afternoon and was more than an hour late to his shift, to the surprise of everyone at the restaurant.

“Only when necessary,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras would normally respond that those instances were hardly “necessary” in the grand scheme of things, but he didn’t have the energy, so he just nodded sleepily and rested his head against Grantaire’s bopping shoulder as they walked.

The rest of the journey to the apartment passed in a comfortable silence since they were used to walking home from the Musain together after shifts - they had a rhythm - and they were home before Enjolras even realized it. He winced in pain walking up the stairs, taking double the time it usually took to climb the one flight.

However, what he noticed more than the pain was the concern on Grantaire’s face. His eyes swept from Enjolras’ feet, to check his balance, all the way up to his head, to make sure he wasn’t overexerting himself. He kept his arms outstretched as Enjolras gripped the banister, one in front of him and one in back of him - protecting him, keeping him safe.

Then it hit him harder than when he’d hit the pavement earlier tonight: He couldn’t say the words, but he could show it.

Walking down the hallway to the apartment, Enjolras took his keys from his pocket and worked the spare apartment key out from the ring. His fingers were heavy and uncooperative; he was so indescribably nervous all of a sudden, but he steeled himself. He’d been in more terrifying situations - he’d been in more danger and up against greater odds. This should be a piece of cake compared to giving a speech in front of hundreds, but acknowledging that didn’t ease his nerves. If anything, it made them worse.

He handed the singular key to Grantaire, pressing it into his palm. Grantaire sent him a confused look, but didn’t say anything. He tried to hand it back after they were safely inside the apartment. But Enjolras shook his head, closing the door and fastening the deadbolt behind them.

“No, that’s yours,” he replied, taking Grantaire’s hands in his and then pushing them back toward Grantaire’s chest.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire’s eyes were glistening.

Nobody had a key to Enjolras’ apartment. Everybody knew they were welcome whenever they wanted, especially Combeferre and Feuilly, who had made a second home of Enjolras’ place. And Courfeyrac, who showed up more often than anyone because he said the view was spectacular from the large bay window. Enjolras kept the apartment unlocked when he was home, and all their friends knew they could come by anytime - whether it was for company, a discussion, or just a place to crash. However, no one had a key because Enjolras enjoyed having a place where he could be totally alone if he needed it.

Yet, for the first time in his life, he realized even if he wanted to be alone, that didn’t include Grantaire. Even if he needed a break from everything and everyone else, Grantaire was an exception - _the_ exception. Enjolras wanted Grantaire to know that he was always welcome, that he was never an annoyance or a distraction or a burden.

“Very,” Enjolras whispered, gazing into Grantaire’s eyes.

Enjolras knew Grantaire deserved more, deserved to hear the words as frequently as possible, but he hoped this would be enough. It was the closest he could get to “I love you,” at least for now.

The way Grantaire buried his face against Enjolras’ neck - intimately, but delicately so as to not injure him further - let Enjolras know that he understood the immenseness of the gesture. Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s grin against his skin, and he smiled, too, even though it ached to do so. Grantaire understood he was being given exclusive access, never-before access, to Enjolras’ sanctuary. And there was the hope, the promise, of more to come.

“OK, Apollo, we’re going to bed. You need to rest.” Grantaire’s voice was muffled since his face was still half in the hoodie and half on Enjolras’ skin. But Enjolras could detect a wavering in Grantire’s voice anyway and, feeling equally overcome with a rush of emotions, he kissed his boyfriend’s ear before they detangled themselves.

Grantaire wiped at his face with an embarrassed smile - his eyes still glassy - before taking Enjolras’ hand and leading them back to the bedroom. He helped Enjolras strip down, easing his hoodie over Enjolras’ shoulders and tugging his T-shirt over his head. Enjolras caught sight of his shirt before Grantaire tossed it into the laundry basket in his closet; the left side was almost entirely black from the asphalt. He looked down at his chest and saw long red scratches from being dragged against the street, matching the ones that he had seen on Bahorel’s arm. It hurt even looking at it.

Grantaire moved Enjolras’ hands onto both of his shoulders, providing balance while he helped him step out of his grimy sweatpants. There was nothing sexual about the removal of clothes tonight; Grantaire was patient and almost reverential, handling Enjolras like one of his paintings - as if his life depended on it.

When he took the sweatpants in his arms, something changed on Grantaire’s face - a split-second darkness. Then Enjolras remembered he still had the notebook tucked in the pocket. Grantaire pulled it out, holding it with two fingers as Enjolras had done earlier in the evening. Grantaire stared at it, biting at his bottom lip, and Enjolras wasn’t sure what was going to happen. He was petrified that the entire ordeal was about to start all over.

As Enjolras was debating taking the initiative, Grantaire took a step back. The darkness that had clouded his face was gone, replaced with determination. He opened the notebook to the last page, hesitating only a moment before tearing it out. He took a deep breath and then tore the page in half, again and again until it was only a handful of tiny squares. Looking at his hands and then meeting Enjolras’ eyes, he smiled - a bright, accomplished smile. And Enjolras couldn’t help but return it.

The physical destruction of the “will” was for Enjolras’ benefit as much as Grantaire’s, demonstrating the truth of Grantaire’s assertion that he no longer felt that deep sadness - that it was the past and Enjolras was the future. Enjolras knew they had only scratched the surface, that there were many more discussions still to come about both of their emotional well-beings. But for now, knowing the will and therefore the thoughts of suicide were literally in pieces, he was relieved.

In only his boxers, Enjolras walked around the side of his bed and slid into his cool sheets while watching Grantaire empty the scraps into the small trash can by the door. After laying his notebook on Enjolras’ dresser, Grantaire began to shed his clothes, and Enjolras wished he had the energy to help like he usually would. However, the comfort of his bed had already enveloped him. His muscles were less tense, the pain in his head was alleviated with his down pillow scrunched up underneath it, and his shoulder stopped throbbing while he curled sideways on the uninjured side.

“I want brunch in bed tomorrow,” he said as Grantaire finally finished undressing and flicked the light off.

He crawled into the bed behind Enjolras, drawing the sheets and comforter close around their faces. Grantaire’s warmth seeped into every inch of Enjolras’ body - every contact point from their ankles to Grantaire’s chest against his back felt like being wrapped in sunshine. He pulled Grantaire’s arm around his waist and then up against his chest, even though his skin was excruciatingly sensitive there. “Your wish is my command. I don’t want you moving from this bed until I come back in the afternoon. I can let myself in,” Grantaire responded in a low voice.

It was then, in the darkness with Grantaire curled around him protectively, that Enjolras realized Grantaire still had the key tucked into his fist. Enjolras was so gratified, so overwhelmed, that it felt like his chest was opening up, trying to contain his swelling heart. It would be the perfect time for the three little words that had plagued him for his entire life - there might never be a more perfect time - but it still wasn’t the _right_ time. He didn’t want to force them out; he wanted them to be natural. When it was the right time, he wouldn’t even have to think about it.

He had never felt so content and safe in his entire life. He knew he loved Grantaire, and he knew Grantaire felt the exact same. He knew it without a shadow of a doubt now, and that knowledge was all he needed, all they needed, tonight.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Enjolras said instead, cupping Grantaire’s hand in his and kissing it softly as he burrowed back against him. “I’ll be right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This was supposed to be done by the end of September, but I'm sorry and I procrastinate a lot. At least I didn't hit the two-month mark in between updates. :)  
> \- I still like angst way too much.  
> \- I almost promise that the next thing I write in this 'verse will be happy and fluffy.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> \- I have to apologize profusely because I didn't mean to end the last part on a cliffhanger. (And then wait four months to pick it up again...) And then I definitely didn't mean to leave this at one. I promise I'm not doing it on purpose! And it won't be another four months before the next part.  
> \- I like angst way too much.  
> \- Title is from "Extraordinary Girl" by Green Day.  
> \- And I'll say it every time: Thank you so much for the comments and appreciation on this series. It's what keeps me writing a lot of the time, and that means the world to me!  
> \- Also, you can find me [here on Tumblr](http://feuillyed.tumblr.com/), and I would love to talk to any and all of you!


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